


Satisfaction

by lobsterkaijin



Category: Dr. STONE (Anime), Dr. STONE (Manga)
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-24 13:09:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21338773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lobsterkaijin/pseuds/lobsterkaijin
Summary: Every night since he left them, Tsukasa Shishiō dreams of crimson eyes.
Relationships: Ishigami Senkuu/Shishiou Tsukasa
Comments: 3
Kudos: 230





	Satisfaction

Liquid crimson.

He lies awake thinking of crimson. Passion and anger and spirit and soul. Burning, burgeoning, beautiful crimson. That blinks up at him, languid, processing. That stares at him, incredulous, accusing. That turns away from him, disappointed, separating. They leave him again and again in every memory. By the end of every fantasy, they’re aimed towards the horizon. He chases after them. Why can’t they look at him? Why do they always leave him wanting? Sometimes he wants to hold the face towards him by force. And sometimes, he wants to gouge them out, so they always look at him. So they can never look away. So he can drink in their praise, pretend they’re admiring him instead, gazing fondly upon the future he wants to build. At the very least, they did not look away when he stood there, declaring his divine purpose. They stared straight at him, uneasy, as his hand snuffed out an inconsequential existence. They stared and stared and stared, but it wasn’t into him, it was _ at _ him. Away, outside. Othering. That crimson alienated him in that moment. And they never gazed into him ever again. 

Tsukasa thought he was okay with that. Why wouldn’t he be, when his mind was trained on the future? Dedicated to mother nature’s servitude? Though he thought Senkū dead. It should not bother him any longer. When he laid to rest, when all he could see was the backs of his eyelids, it went back to that liquid crimson. That which had bewitched him, enraptured him, enamoured him. That liquid crimson, settled in his core, hot and heavy. Scalded his insides. He curls his toes, sparks fly behind his eyes. His hand gravitates towards that which it shouldn’t, and he strokes himself to completion, thinking of those eyes trained on him, staring into him, seeing him for what he really is.

Holding back is agonizing. Plagued by dreams every night this week, he lies awake thinking of crimson. Every night there is more to the dream, and every night his resolve wanes. Following the cycle of the moon. In one month, he has released into his own hand more than he has his entire life before petrification. What the hell is wrong with him?

First it was a smirk. Smug, a dog’s. Like he knew something Tsukasa didn’t. Like he was _ winning. _ Tsukasa wiped the smirk right off his face in his dream, and that smirk became a song, singing his praises, _ ‘Oh Tsukasa, oh God, yes, my God, Tsukasa.’ _He’d woken up with a gasp, disturbed by the things his unconscious mind could conjure, the area between his legs sticky with diseased wantings. God how he hated it. Senkū would not win. He would never allow it.

(What a fool he was. Senkū had won from the very beginning.)

The next was that of his tongue. What a wicked thing. Senkū kissed the tips of Tsukasa’s fingers, and when he saw the flinch he drew from the beast, satisfied, he took the ring and middle fingers into his mouth, dragged his teeth along the length, eyes fluttering shut and pretending like it was something else he had between his lips. Tsukasa saw it reflected in those crimson eyes before they disappeared behind his lids. The thing he wished to be tasting, wrapping his tongue around. Mesmerized, so thoroughly hypnotized by the slick sound of Senkū’s sucking, and the vibrations of his hum from deep in his throat, that Tsukasa genuinely cursed himself when he awoke and hadn’t released yet, and had to think incredibly hard to focus on the lingering image of his dream while lamenting how unsatisfactory his fingers were. They were nothing like the feel of Senkū’s mouth. Denial purged his lips of any and all sound. He was not going to say it, not even to himself. Shameful, _ shameful. _

(Though the day was his, the nighttime belonged to Senkū.)

His hands, oh lord, _his hands._ Long fingers, one might mistake them for a pianist’s. Rough, weathered palms, calloused by his damnable science. Tsukasa is pinned back, by what he cannot say, but whatever it is, it’s keeping him from lunging at the scientist, trapping him, enacting upon him the hunger of a lion, tearing apart his skin, tasting flesh, sating his desire, torturing him, oh how it’s torturing him, he just wants one measly taste, but his strength is stolen, his limbs are apart from him, and here is Senkū, on him, free to roam the unexplored territory, traipsing a balancing beam over a precarious precipice. Senkū’s hands grab and grasp every inch of his skin, scrape soothing circles into his scalp, trace the scars and the muscle and pinch his most sensitive spots. _‘Hm, so you like that, huh?’_ _No,_ no he does not. He does not _just_ ‘like that.’ It’s _fire_ in his loins. The bastard is enjoying himself, making Tsukasa arch under his touch. He laughs. Laughs until his mouth turns open and moans, as he uses one hand to touch himself in a way that Tsukasa wishes he could but is being _prevented_ from doing by this awful dream of his. 

He awakes with the wretched coiling in his gut and an aching in his knees and hips, from the rutting he was doing in his sleep. He’s too angry at himself to give in to the temptation, and rolls over under his pelts, falling back into a fitful, unsatisfactory sleep.

(So long as he denies himself, he will remain unsatisfied.)

Senkū lays beneath him, staring straight at him, as he ruts into him, rips his climax from his throat like an animal in heat, all tongue and teeth, all incomplete. It’s not real. As long as he tells himself this, his release taunts him, and he’s left chasing, _ chasing _after something that he cannot have, not in this space, not with this dream version of this brat. Senkū doesn’t react to Tsukasa’s beastly desires. He just lets Tsukasa exhaust himself. 

He opens his eyes and he is once again in the world of waking, and he yells out into the night. No one is there to hear him. As much as he tugs himself, he cannot achieve the release. He wants Senkū, he wants to be _with_ Senkū, _within_ him, smelling him and tasting him and feeling his insides clench around him as he takes him again and again. He tries, and he tries, and he tries and tries and tries, but he is denied every time. Since when have his hands become so useless?

(Since he started dreaming of Senkū.)

A whisper in his ear, that of his Kingdom, promising a gift of which he has never seen before. Tsukasa returns to his den to see Senkū there, laying on his pelts, hands tied behind his back, eyes trained on him. Ah, _ ah. _ There they are. The liquid crimson. Not looking _ at _ him, but seeing _ into _ him once again. Is his mouth watering? He’d eaten this morning, hadn’t he? Yet now comes from within him a hunger so violent and raw, so deafening, so ravenous, he cannot control the tension in his throat, as he finds his voice to ask the scientist, “What are you doing here?”

Senkū tilts his head. “Aw, didja miss me?”

“I need not remind you of your position.”

That gets a laugh from him. “Relax. I’m not here ‘cause I wanna be.”

Tsukasa considers the situation. There is no one outside his den, and he cannot sense any other presence within the limited space. Setting his coat over the hanger, he approaches Senkū, almost smiling when Senkū instinctively tries to sit up and match his majesty.

“You’re in _ my _ territory.” He muses, the beginnings of a smirk in his voice.

Senkū scoffs. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

It seems Senkū has no memory of their camaraderie. Or he does, and that is why he shows such contempt now, for he is stuck on the memory of when they were on the same side, when they slept in rooms next to each other, when they kissed once when Taiju was off collecting sea shells. Those were happier memories. Those are the memories Tsukasa looks back on fondly. They could be like that again, if Senkū could just _ give in. _ He _ could, _ but that wouldn’t be the stubborn, prideful, ambitious Senkū he’d fallen for.

“You’re not in the least bit afraid.”

Said like a fact, not a question. Senkū hesitates. Not out of fear, but out of caution. How does one answer that? No, he is not afraid. He could never be afraid of Tsukasa. There was once upon a time he thought his life would end by that man’s hand. He’s still convinced it will, and still he’s not in the least bit afraid. Tsukasa did it painlessly, and he would should he get the chance again. A clean kill. No muss, no fuss. Taiju and Yuzuriha would have a body to bury, a body they could still recognize. 

Tsukasa’s eyes are on him, searing, branding a hole right through him. Senkū answers. “No, I’m not.” Not of you. _ Never _ of you.

Tsukasa kneels down beside the pile of pelts and blankets, observes Senkū. The crease of his brow, the sweat down his neck, the arch of his back. Their eyes lock on each other, and Senkū’s liquid crimson turns Tsukasa’s gaze molten. The realization hits them at the same time.

_ I missed him. _

Tsukasa positions himself between Senkū’s legs, and Senkū lets him take his place there, a place he’s wanted Tsukasa to be, _ desperately, _ for so long he’s forgotten what it was like to want anything else, and he’s wrapping his legs around Tsukasa’s hips, egging him on. Tsukasa wastes no time, he pulls Senkū into his lap, and unties the ropes on his wrists. Senkū stares up at him, a slip of pink darting past his lips to wet them. He wraps his arms around Tsukasa’s shoulders, tangles his fingers in Tsukasa’s hair, and suddenly all of Tsukasa’s dreams are coming back to him. Senkū’s eyes, that grin, his tongue, those hands. Tsukasa wants to get back at him for all of it, all the times he’d gotten off thinking of the scientist, and for all the times he couldn’t.

He hikes Senkū’s tunic up past his thighs, relishes in the creamy skin, grips hard enough to bruise. When Senkū returns to his blasted Kingdom of Science, Tsukasa wants his followers to know exactly who he belongs to. Senkū pulls his hair at this, groans from the pain, and Tsukasa responds in tandem, rutting up against Senkū.

Senkū tugs at the collar of Tsukasa’s shirt, and he helps the man by pulling it up over his head, leaving himself bare for scrutiny under Senkū’s heated gaze. Senkū’s hands immediately gravitate to his chest, cupping his pecs, and Tsukasa cannot help but laugh. This is exactly like from his dream. God, and if Senkū grabbed him just like in his dream, Tsukasa isn’t sure he could last under such ministrations. Unfortunately for him, Senkū does exactly that, seeming to sense Tsukasa’s trepidation, and grins dangerously when it elicits exactly the reaction he was hoping for, Tsukasa gasping and jumping up under his touch. 

The bastard keeps doing, pinching and twisting, and adding his kisses to Tsukasa’s throat, running a tongue along his Adam’s apple. Of all the things to come true, it _ had _ to be this, didn’t it? How shameful, to want this, to want to be touched and teased like this, by an enemy. Yes, this is his greatest enemy, but this is also his greatest friend, someone Tsukasa can genuinely say he loves. And it’s out of this love that he lets Senkū see his vulnerability, and lets Senkū play with him, though he could just as easily, with killer claws and teeth to match, tear his prey apart. He plays Senkū’s game because he loves and wants this. Ah, but Senkū isn’t going to have his way for very long.

Tsukasa has his revenge by grasping the both of their erections in his one hand. Now _ that _ is a reaction he will never forget. Senkū’s eyes squeeze shut, and his mouth hangs open in a ragged moan. Good, _ good. _ Fall to his whims, Senkū. 

Senkū thrusts up against him. It’s the wetness from the head of his dick in Tsukasa’s hand, against his own, that has him wrapping an arm around Senkū’s waist, pulling them closer, allowing the heat to build between them both. “Come _ on,_” comes Senkū’s voice, impatient.

Tsukasa chuckles, something low, something _ deep, _ because he knows what is coming, he knows exactly what he’s going to get from this. Satisfaction, _ release, _ the very thing he’s been chasing for God knows how long. It overwhelms him, this need to force it out of Senkū too, and he pushes Senkū onto his back, so he can get a full view, so he can watch that wonderful, awful, miserable, _ delicious _ release burn its way through Senkū’s core, and as it does so, Senkū’s eyes open wide, and liquid crimson watches him as his own release tears him apart. _Finally._

They’re left panting, sticky and disgusting, and satisfied.

(Senkū doesn’t ask to leave. Tsukasa doesn’t ask him to stay.)


End file.
